Not a Ghost of a Chance
by Andromache Welch
Summary: The Ghostbusters have to join forces with the parapsycology department of Columbia to stop the end of the world. Again. You can tell off the bat how original I am. NOTE: Written on Twinkie High. Be warned.
1. Well Read Ghost

DISCLAIMER: Don't own. 'Nuff said.

Chapter One: Well Read Ghosts

Peter Venkman had taken the blow rather well, considering one does not often have a tyre iron collide with out warning into one's head.

"Alright, Peter?" Winston said, dodging the shrapnel in order to get to Venkman's side.

When the call had come in, Peter had decided they had to go, considering it was a bit of a dry spell for activity, and they needed the money. The Ghostbusters, having been warned about the violent nature apparition, arrived on site armed to the teeth and ready to bust some chops. They were led into a room by a woman Venkman had described as a 'total spaz' and were surprised to find that nothing in the room was touching the floor. It seemed to have been a library before the books and shelves had decided to hurl themselves wily nilly across the room.

Venkman shook his head fiercely and widened his eyes. Suddenly the world looked like it was made of cotton balls.

"Peter?" Winston said, though not before dodging another book.

"Who the hell keeps a tyre iron in an office!" Peter exclaimed over the noise, rubbing his head with his free hand.

Winston shrugged, "I think it's moved on to the garage."

He was referring to the poltergeist that Ray had affectionately nicknamed 'The Coolest Thing EVER'. It seemed to have manifested into a blackish blob, and was obviously having the time of its life hurling things at the Ghostbusters.

"Christ, that hurt," Peter said over Ray and Egon's excited banter, ("Did you see that? It has to be bigger than the Resch Poltergeist!" "And I think the fact that it's not centred around a person is unusual…")

Winston and Peter ducked behind an overed desk and stuck their positron rifles over the top. Winston was, for a moment, reminded of Vietnam. It was easy to shake off, for a very large, leather-bound book soon smacked him straight in the face.

"The Complete Works of Jane Austen," Peter remarked, looking at the book now strewn across the floor, "That bitch."

Meanwhile, Ray and Egon were struggling to get the Ghost Trap in the centre of the room. They had tried the run-really-fast-in-spurts technique, but it proved unsuccessful.

"What if we distract it?" Ray said, his eyes wide with excitement, "One of us can cause a distraction and the other can set the trap."

"I don't know, Ray," Egon replied sceptically, "This apparition is a higher class than most. If he has enough power to hit all of us with a separate copy of the World Book at the same time, I don't think a distraction would be too hard to handle for this guy."

Ray nodded.

"Alright then," he said, "Why don't you guys try to wrangle it, and that'll give me time enough to get the trap under him."

It was at this point that Winston got hit by Austen.

Egon nodded. "Well, it's one step closer to getting back to the firehouse." He replied, setting down the Gigameter and fixing his rifle. Ray took up the trap and began slowly crawling out of the safe area.

Egon called over to Peter and Winston. "Peter!" he said, "On my count!"

Peter and Winston stopped whatever they were doing (it seemed that they were ripping a slightly bloodstained book to shreds) and readied their wands.

Ray had made it almost unbludgeoned (though an Evelyn Waugh gave him a run for his money) to directly under the poltergeist.

"One," Egon began, taking aim.

"Two," Ray was starting to worry. The black cloud floating above him had armed himself with encyclopaedias A through H.

"THREE!" With the sound of cats gargling razor blades, three posotronic beams shot to the poltergeist, freezing him in motion. The encyclopaedias dropped to the floor, missing Ray, who was sprinting to behind the desk, where he set down the activator.

Ray hurriedly slammed down on the activation button with his boot, and in a spray of light and humming, the thing was swallowed up. The books and various office supplies clunked to the floor, and in a swirl of dust and teeny tiny bits of the Complete Works of Jane Austen, the Ghostbusters rose from the burgundy carpeting.

"Well, that went well, I think," Peter said, brushing himself off. "Now we all have matching concussions. Except for Egon. Egon, you can't be in our club."

Ray picked up the steaming trap. It still felt hot, even holding it by the wires. He couldn't wait to put this in the records.

The spaz woman referred to earlier had noticed a change in the air, and she poked her head in cautiously, he perfectly thinned black eyebrows perked in surprise at the condition of her office. She was even more surprised by the bill that Venkman chose at this time to shove in her face.

"That's a little costly, don't you think?" she said it an impeccable Liverpool accent.

"Three of us sustained semi-serious injuries, ma'am," Peter said, raising an eyebrow to attract attention to the reddish gash on his forehead. "Unless you'd rather chat with your lawyers about that?"

The woman turned almost as white as when she had first seen the poltergeist.

"Uh, no, no, that's not necessary," she said, taking the bill and reading it again, "This will be fine. Just fine. Do you take cash?"

Venkman's ears perked up.

"Do we ever!"

The Ecto-1 blazed through the streets of New York City. Normally, they would only use the siren if they were on the way to a bust, but Peter didn't feel like stopping for pesky lights or stop signs, so eventually he had persuaded Ray to turn on the siren. Of course, this included threatening Ray's extensive Paranormal Digest Special Edition collection in a way that almost ended in someone being knocked out, but that is how tired Peter was.

"I am going straight to bed when we get back," Venkman said, stretching out in the back seat.

"It's only five o'clock," Winston said, checking his watch. "Did you stay up watching 'Rawhide' again?"

"By emotional law, I am obligated to watch every Clint Eastwood show, or send him money in the mail." He replied, "And I don't really want to do that."

Ray removed his ecto goggles with one hand as he drove with the other one.

"You can't go to bed when we get back, Pete," Ray said, rolling his eyes at being forced to repeat himself, "We've got a meeting with Dr. Graham."

Peter's smile morphed into a frown.

"Oh, come on, Ray!" he said, annoyed, "It's Friday night! And I know some of us want to spend that time discussing the latest research and sucking up to the parapsychology chair over a Shirley Temple, but I for one would just like to curl up with a beer and watch some TV."

Egon and Ray sighed.

"Fine," Ray said, pulling into the firehouse and coming to a stop. "Your loss."

Four doors slammed, and four proton packs were mounted on the wall.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Venkman said, walking to his office.

Janine Melnitz sat filing her nails and reading Glamour Magazine. She was about to turn on the television when Peter Venkman leaned up against her desk. She looked up and gave him a 'what-the-hell-is-important-enough-to-bother-me' look.

"Janine," he said, his voice dripping with saccharine mush, "Any calls today?"

Janine stopped filing.

"Of course not, Dr. Venkman," she said in that voice that could summon goats, "The last bust you went on was the first this week."

Venkman nodded and patted the desk.

"Thanks Janine," he said sarcastically, "I can tell your pay check is going to good use."

She rolled her eyes as Venkman went back into his office. Ray Stantz was the next to bother her. Why, she thought, why couldn't Egon ever bother her?

"Hey Janine." Ray said, flipping through the day's mail. "Has Dr. Graham called?"

Janine had begun filing her nails again, and had also turned on the television.

"The meeting's not cancelled, if that's what you mean," she said over the theme music to her favourite talk show. "Nobody called."

"Thanks." Ray said, resolving to go upstairs, take a shower and change into his good suit. He set the mail down and walked up the stairs, leaving Janine to her talk show.

Janine sighed. Maybe it was time to break out the Scrabble board.


	2. Dinner and a Show

Chapter 2: Dinner and a Show

The New York City Library had been open for about an hour when Orson Blakely stalked in. His black winter coat stayed perfectly still as he made his way to the main office. He was late, but no one would care. No one ever cared.

He unlocked the package room and looked in. Huge cardboard boxes stood every which way, forming a kind of fort around a small desk in the centre. A note reading 'please shelve' in curly black writing sat on one of the boxes. Orson ripped it off and crumpled it up, and mumbled as he walked over to the desk. The chair squeaked horribly as he fell into it. He sat lethargically for a moment, pondering why he was where he was.

Orson had worked in the same room for fifteen years. He would open all the packages, unwrap and stamp all the books, and send them to be shelved. In the beginning, he had been excited about everything. He figured if he played his cards right, he would be probably be promoted within the first few years. After the first decade, he stopped caring. He willingly came in and dealt with the monotony and the annoying staff, and would fantasize about quitting.

He opened his desk and pulled out an orange box cutter and sighed as he picked up his first box. It was from the China Dog Publishing company, and he soon found out that it was full of the latest self-help books. He tried not to vomit. He piled them all out, stamped them and threw them onto a trolley of to-be-shelved books. For a moment, his mind wandered and he began to think about things he could do with the box cutter. Then they'd listen to him. But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and he began opening boxes again.

It was about at this point that he noticed a very strange shaped package sitting in the corner. Usually, he would dismiss it and continue with the other boxes until he made it to the corner, but for some reason, he was attracted to the package, and he found himself moving towards it, his hands stretched out until he felt it in his grasp.

It was packaged messily in a brownish stained paper, tied with a wilting string. Orson though that it was much heavier than it looked. He made his way around the boxes and sat back at his desk. He set down the package and stared at it curiously for a moment. There was no return address. His fingers stretched out in pursuit of the string, and just as he could feel the strands tickling his fingertips, the door swung open.

"Orson!" Mandy Goldman said angrily, pushing the boxes with the door. His oily moustache twitched, "Where are those self-help books, there's been a waiting list for six weeks!"

Orson's finger snapped back from the package. His sallow face contorted into a kind of creepy smiled, but his circled eyes showed no enthusiasm.

"They'll be down in a minute," he said, his voice full of gravel, "I just need to get a few more of them out."

Goldman didn't look happy, but he turned and slammed the door behind him. Orson went to collect the self help books.

Ray and Egon awkwardly made their way through the lobby of Match restaurant. Ray felt very smart in his olive green tweed suit, and Egon, who had decided not to waste his time on appearances, had his usual sweater vest and khakis on.

"We've got a reservation under Graham." Ray said once he approached the reception desk.

The host was a very thin man, who had a thin, black moustache that made him look like a caterpillar had fallen asleep on his face. The glare off his thoroughly bald head was almost mesmerizing.

"Yes, your party is already seated," the man said, collecting some menus and coming out from behind his post, "this way, please."

The restaurant was a classy place. It always was when Graham was paying. Ian Graham had recently been put in charge of the parapsychology department at Columbia. After the Ghostbusters had become popular, their ex-university came up with a whole new plan for parapsychology, and the new team was notorious for trying to bring down the Ghostbusters. Graham met with them once in a while to discuss new discoveries and trends in the paranormal world. And then sometimes, the busters would get a juicy grant. That was what made the tedium all worth while.

Ray and Egon followed the host through a forest of crystal glass tables topped with china plates and silver utensils. There was a gold chandelier hanging from the carved ceiling, and there was a string quartet in the corner playing Mozart. In the corner, Graham sat at a silk spread table next to a young blonde woman. He looked up when he saw Ray and Egon approaching.

"Hello, my friends!" Graham said, his English accent very posh indeed, "Please, sit down!"

The host went off as Egon and Ray shook hands with Graham and sat down.

"How are you lads?" Graham said, not waiting for an answer, "This is one of my team, by the way. Dr. Dora Ferris."

Ferris, who was reading a book, looked up for a moment, smiled, and went back to reading.

"You'll have to pardon her," Graham said with a sly smile, "she's been working all day. Can't get her to put the book away."

Ferris didn't seem to hear.

"So what's new, boys?" Graham asked again, unfolding his napkin, "Anything interesting happen lately?"

Ray ran his hand through his hair nervously. He could feel that there would be no grant involved if he told the truth. Unfortunately, he just could not do otherwise.

"Well, we've hit a kind of dry spot," Ray said, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh, dear," Ian said, glancing at Ferris, unreturned of course, "I hope you haven't gotten rid of all the ghosts! We'd have nothing left to do, eh, Dora?"

Dr. Ferris mumbled something. It didn't faze Graham.

"There always seems to be a sort of decrescendo in paranormal activity around this time of year," Egon said, folding his hands, "I'm sure a fluctuation is on the way. And as for getting rid of all the ghosts, I doubt that highly."

The waiter had come with a bottle of wine and a bread basket, and Egon decided not to warn Ray not to fill up on bread. This was, after all, a special occasion. They were given menus.

Ray's heart sank when he realized that there was nothing on the menu that he even recognized. No macaroni and cheese. No spaghetti. What the hell is foie gras? He shifted in his seat uneasily.

"Egon," he whispered, making sure that Graham and his friend weren't listening, "they don't have grilled cheese or anything."

Egon looked back at Ray.

"Ray, you've been here before," he replied, "just have some pasta."

Ray pouted. There were days for foods he didn't understand and there were days to just get a burger and fries. This was a burger day.

"Yes, I'll have the veal cutlet, please," Graham told the waiter, "the most lean you have."

Ray still had not decided what he wanted. Most of the menu was in French, which he had taken in high school, and the only thing he could remember to say was "Je suis un pomplemousse," and he wasn't even completely sure what it meant.

"I'd like the Peking Duck, please," Dr. Ferris said quietly, "thank you."

Ray had remembered that 'poulet' meant 'chicken', which he decided was probably the safe choice on the menu, regardless of whatever the side dishes were.

"I don't eat." Egon said when the waiter had asked his order. The waiter looked stumped for a moment, and let it slide.

Once the waiter had left, Graham suddenly turned very grave.

"As much as I enjoy talking with you, lads," he said, fooling around with his fork, "something rather unsettling has come up lately, and we thought you may have some interest in it."

Egon raised his eyebrows. It was not usual that Columbia came to the Ghostbusters with new stuff. They were often competing against each other, trying to bump the other to a lower rung of the parapsycological ladder. The fact that none of them had actually met each other did not faze them.

"Really?" Egon asked, his eyebrows melting into a frown.

"Yes, well," Graham said, obviously having to suck up his pride to do this, "we got some interesting news from the Society yesterday. Apparently, some sort of book was found in Israel, and some archaeologists were sending it to a museum to be checked out, and it simply disappeared on the way."

He shrugged. "It's supposed to have ended up in the city."

Egon and Ray were both confused.

"What does that have to do with us?" Ray asked, feeling sorry for the people who lost their findings, but not really caring for finding it himself.

Graham took in a deep breath. At this point, Dr. Ferris closed her books and watched him intently.

"It was supposed to be the fabled Black Book." Graham said pretty casually considering the circumstances.

Ray's mouth dropped open and Egon's mind went racing away.

"The Black Book?" Egon said in an intense whisper.

"Wouldn't we have read about it if they found it?" Ray added, "In the Fortean Times or ParaMag?"

Graham nodded. "They didn't have time to do anything," he replied, "Before they knew it, it was gone. And the worst part is, we've already noticed some significant changes in the city's PKE readings. If the book is opened, we've got a problem on our hands."

Dr. Ferris nodded.

"We would really like it," Graham said, glancing at Ferris for a moment, and choosing his words carefully, "if you would put some effort into the case."

Peter had lived up to his expectations, and was currently lounging in the firehouse break room, beer in hand, watching 'Happy Days' reruns.

"Fonzie is my hero," he said to Winston, who was in the back of the room reading.

"I'm not surprised." He replied, turning a page.

Peter shifted his weight and changed the channel. He had watched the rest of the 'Rawhide' marathon, and decided he was in the mood for something a bit deeper. Oh, perfect, a new episode of 'Full House'!

"Dude," Winston said, having dealt with watching 'Full House' with Peter before, "Can't you call Dana or something? Go out? This just isn't healthy, man."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Dana's angry with me." He replied, apathetically getting up and walking to the fridge for another beer. "She thinks I don't do enough stuff with her."

Winston put down his magazine.

"Don't you think calling her up and asking her out would be a good thing to do to show her differently?" he asked.

"You obviously don't have a lot of experience with chicks, Zeddmore." Peter replied, "They WANT you to ignore them. They LIKE it."

"Whatever, Pete." Winston said with a smile. "You just-…"

He was cut off by the screaming alarm.

"Guess we got trouble." Winston said, setting down his magazine and putting on his pack.

"Oh, we've got trouble," Peter sang, strapping on his gear, "Right here in New York City. With a capital 'T' and that rhymes with 'G' and that stands for 'Ghost'…"


End file.
